


Luke 24:39

by courfairyac



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Canon Era, Haunting, M/M, Minor Character Death, Pining, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-04
Updated: 2020-02-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:35:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22117990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/courfairyac/pseuds/courfairyac
Summary: Behold my hands and my feet, that it is I myself: handle me, and see; for a spirit hath not flesh and bones, as ye see me have.John Hartnell dies. Thomas Hartnell grieves. John Irving is haunted.But like, literally.
Relationships: Thomas Hartnell/Lt John Irving
Comments: 8
Kudos: 21





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> i'm going for as much for the historical timeline and accuracy as i can manage, but research is my mortal enemy, so feel free to point out any inaccuracies if you wish!
> 
> as always, I owe the biggest thank you to [Phoebus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phoebus) for the never ending support and [brokje](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brokje) for the beta! ♥

_Dear Malcolm,_

_We have been anchored here at Beechey Island for_ _several_ _weeks now, and while it is a great relief after the rough passing of Baffin Bay, we are all keen to continue our journey, so that we might find the passage and return home as soon as possible._ _I try to keep myself busy as best as I can, but there are times when I can’t suppress my longing for home, for the company of my family and_ _for_ _yours as well._ _There is no man on this ship who I can share my burdens with, so I apologize for laying them all on you in this way. Oh, how I wish you were here, too_ – _I do miss our conversations and your cheerful temperament, which_ _wo_ _u_ _l_ _d surely pull me out of my sour moods._

John puts his pen down and sighs. All of what he has written is true and yet it feels wrong, since his disposition is far worse than he is letting on. He is lonely, far lonelier than he is willing to admit even to himself.

He gets along well enough with the other lieutenants, but so far, his relationships with them have stayed purely professional. They, too, are men who don’t easily slip into friendly relations, who tend to keep to themselves. There is no one on the ship that he can truly call his friend, no one he can currently talk to about matters more personal than the state of their supplies or the weather.

And on top of that, there had been the death of John Torrington.

When the stoker had only two days ago, it had been as if an icy hand had closed its fingers around John’s heart. He hadn’t known him well, not well enough to feel grief anyway, but a great melancholy had settled over him which he hasn’t been able to shake ever since.

John finishes up the letter, hating how pitiful he sounds and wonders if he should send it at all. If he could have only a single word back from his friend, his heart would feel at peace again.

To distract himself, he puts all his efforts into his daily work. It exhausts but doesn’t fulfil him. He prays, too, in the mornings and in the evenings. He prays for the crew’s good health, and that the Lord may guide them safely through the rest of their journey. He prays that he will show John how to improve himself, how to rid himself of his condition. Sometimes he prays that he may find someone to confide in, although it feels selfish and he knows that it is his own responsibility to form new friendships.

Lying awake at night, he often pictures himself walking the gardens with Malcolm in the summer, holding his arm and feeling safe, feeling happy. If he tries hard enough, he can smell the yellow roses blooming around them, hear the sounds of the birds in the trees. He clings to the picture with all his might, surrounded by miles and miles of nothing but icy water and rocks.

They give the stoker a proper burial, though it’s hard work to dig deep enough into the frozen ground. The men endure it without complaint, certainly feeling in their heart that it is the right thing to do. Sir John holds a beautiful service, words chosen with care and spoken with compassion. Torrington’s soul is safe with God now, freed from this cold and desolate place. John almost envies him.

Much to his vexation, an air of superstition has taken hold of a lot of the men after the funeral. There is whispering talk of spirits roaming the cargo hold, about suspicious noises and ghostlike figures spotted far out on the ice at night.

John Irving doesn’t believe in ghosts. Or rather, he knows that ghosts do not exist. Which, it seems to him, must amount to the same.

Of course, there are perfectly sensible reasons to avoid going to the cargo hold. It is cold down there, so far from the ship’s oven and on top there’s little light. One is likely to trip over the numerous crates, sacks and piles of rope strewn around.

And then there’s the rats: scuttling around, looking for scraps of food, for anything to sink their teeth into. They are disgusting, wriggling over each other in heaps; there is something so unnatural in their movement that it makes John sick to look at them. Those are the reasons why he tries to avoid going down there. At least that’s what he tells himself every time he passes the hatch that leads down, peers into the darkness and feels an inexplicable jolt of fear chill him to his bones.

He wonders if he should broach the topic with the captain, so that he might take measures that will deter the men from their talk. It is not unheard of that captains cut the rations of whoever is stirring up trouble this way. Sir John might be persuaded, but John doesn’t know if the same goes for Captain Crozier. He is a strict man, but difficult to approach. John believes he might have made a good leader in his earlier days, when the drink hadn’t taken hold of him yet. It is a pity, but John can’t bring himself to feel too sorry for the man. It is his responsibility to rid himself of this vice, if not for his own sake, then for that of his crew.

No, he won’t tell the captain about these ghost stories. It is only natural that the men are upset after this death, and John knows that it is also their lack of education that compels them to turn to the supernatural instead of the teachings of the Lord. A week or two of their daily work will distract them and eventually drive out any thoughts of spirits and hauntings.

Only a day later, John Hartnell keels over in the middle of the mess hall, coughing up blood. When he’s brought to the sick bay, he looks as if he’s already dead, face ashen and eyes glazed over. John turns and walks out to his own berth, sits down on his bed and lets his head fall into his hands.


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let the haunting begin!

The door to his little chamber is torn open without a warning, and a man staggers in, immediately sinking down to his knees in front of John, who is too startled to move away.

„You’ve got to–... _they can’t just_ –... _!_ ”

He recognizes Thomas Hartnell, eyes red and face stained with tears. John stares at him, and before he can think of what to say Tom grabs the front lapels of his coat and pulls him forward with force.

„ _Stop them!_ Please, you’ve got to do something – oh God – _please, just_ –... “

His voice cracks and he lets go, falling back on his heels, curling up into himself.

John’s heart is beating fast, his thoughts muddled, but he manages to reach out and put a hand on Tom’s shoulder to steady him.

„What in God’s name–“, he starts, but then realization sets in.

They are going to cut John Hartnell open to check for signs of scurvy, as they have done with the other two. Many of the men had raged against it, but none of them had borne any relations to the deceased. None of them had to endure the pain of losing a brother.

He takes a deep breath and looks down at Tom, who has buried his face in his hands, his whole body trembling with his sobs.

„Thomas, look at me.”

It takes a few seconds until he does, and it’s a pitiful sight that makes John’s heart ache. All strength seems to have gone out of the man opposite him, his face slack and his eyes empty.

„You need to calm yourself, you hear me?”

John tightens his grip on Tom’s shoulder, giving him a little shake. It seems to pull him out of his trance and his stream of pleas starts up again.

„They’ve got to let him rest. Please, you need to tell them that they can’t do it. It isn’t right, you see that, don’t you? You’re the only one who would–“

No, it isn’t right. But John knows that it is not within his power to stop what needs to be done. Sir John has made his orders, knowing that the well-doing of his men must stand above their personal feelings on the matter. There is no way around it, and John has made his peace with it. To explain the necessity to someone grieving is another thing, though.

„I understand what you want to tell me, Thomas, but there is nothing I can do.” Comforting words are not his strong suit, and he struggles to continue, hating how harsh his words ring in his own ears.

„None of us would have made this choice, had we not been forced to. We need to know what caused your brother’s death, so that we can prevent any more suffering. Please believe me when I say that I am deeply sorry”, he finishes lamely.

Tom stares at him wordlessly, and John desperately tries to think of a way to proceed. The tightness of the berth is threatening to overwhelm him, but he doesn’t want to disturb the quiet that has settled over them.

He’s reminded of David, of how he used to come to him crying whenever he had fallen down while playing outside, his knees scraped open or his ankle bent. It’s a strange comparison, but when he feels a head lay down on his leg his hand instinctively comes up and he can feel his brother’s soft hair under his caressing hand.

Except it is not his brother laying in his lap.

He draws his hand back and feels a flush surge up his cheeks like fire. Whatever could have compelled him to do this?

He looks down at Tom, who hasn’t moved or made any sign that John’s actions have disturbed him at all. It suddenly occurs to him that this entire situation is highly inappropriate, and he feels a rush of anger at himself for indulging in this folly.

There’s footsteps coming down the deck towards his cabin and finally John feels able to stir himself. He pushes Tom back by his shoulders and gets up, stepping around him and out of the door, where he’s met by Lieutenant Little, who looks like he’s having the worst day of his life.

„It’s Tom Hartnell– “, Little starts, but John interrupts him.

„I know. He came to me when they started.”

He stops, and swallows down the lump of guilt lodged in his throat.

„I’ve talked to him, and I think he’ll see sense now. If you would be so kind as to show him to doctor Peddie, maybe he could give him a tonic to calm his nerves.”

Little nods and John gestures vaguely to his cabin before he starts out towards the upper deck, not daring to look back.

The following night, John is plagued a nightmare worse than any he’s had before on this journey.

_There’s the bay where_ _Torrington_ _lie_ _s_ _buried,_ _but instead of one there are_ _three headstones standing out from the gravelly beach like fingers raised in warning. He’s all alone, wind howling around him, and when he turns to look out on the sea_ _,_ _the ships are gone. All he can see is a_ _wall_ _of dark grey clouds gathering up, a great storm approaching._

_They have abandoned him, left him_ _here_ _to die._

_He wants to scream for help, but his throat closes up and no sound escapes._

_A noise from behind him makes him turn just in time to see the rocks laid on one of the graves shift and tumble down, as if something is moving underneath them._

_Fear_ _overwhelms him, like two icy hands gripping heart. H_ _e_ _turns and_ _starts running toward the nearest hill just as the first crash of thunder rings out over the shore. He trips and stumbles, pain shooting up from his knees. A few seconds later his body is thrown forward and there’s water closing in all around him, a wave that covers the island as if it wants to swallow it whole._

_The ground is ripped from beneath him and he loses all sense of direction, thrown around by the currents until his lungs feel like they are about to burst from the lack of air._

_He needs to keep going, needs to find a way upward, but it’s too late._

John wakes up with a start and gasps for air, feeling his blanket cling to where his body is soaked in cold sweat. It has wrapped itself tightly around his legs and he struggles to get free, still reeling from sensation of being trapped underwater.

He wipes his forehead with his sleeve and takes a deep breath.

It was just a dream.

He can hear the faint sound of raindrops hitting the side of the ship, a steady rhythm that helps calm him down after a few moments.

Just a dream.

His eyes are adjusting to the darkness and he takes a look around his cabin. He doesn’t own a lot of things, and what he has is safely stored away. John takes great care to keep his little space tidy and neat. Which is why a handful of small objects strewn about on the ground catch his eye almost immediately.

Gingerly, he steps out of his bed and kneels down to examine them.

They are pebbles, shiny and round and wet to the touch.

John’s mind starts racing and he looks up at the bolt at his door, which is fastened just the way he left it before he went to bed.

 _How in_ _G_ _od’s name_ – _?_

The stones in his hand don’t offer an explanation and the longer John stares at them, the more he thinks he might be going insane.

When he feels his leg cramping up, he finally moves, picking up all of the stones and carefully laying them down on the shelf above his bed. He eyes them suspiciously, as if they are going to start floating down on their own accord at any second.

Then he realizes what he’s doing and scolds himself. Whatever has happened here, there must be a perfectly reasonable explanation for it. He’s probably too tired to conceive of it at the moment, but it will come to him in the morning.

He lies back down in his bed, but it takes him a while to fall asleep again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's no fixed schedule for this fic, I just thought today would be a good occasion to upload.  
> Happy birthday John!  
> Now I only have one chapter in reserve so someone should kick my ass and make me write again...

**Author's Note:**

> at the moment I'm guessing this will end up having roughly 8 chapters, i'll upload one every time i finish one, luckily i already have a bit of a backlog in case i hit a writing block. fingers crossed! the actual plot pretty much only starts in the next chapter, so uh. sorry.


End file.
